The Boxer, or Scenes from an Exile
by darkershade
Summary: Christopher Brandon in India. A Prequel to Mindful of the Feelings of Others.


The Boxer, or Scenes from an Exile

By Darkershade

I.

" _I am just a poor boy_

 _Though my story's seldom told_

 _I have squandered my resistance_

 _For a pocketful of mumbles_

 _Such are promises_

 _All lies and jest_

 _Still, a man hears what he wants to hear_

 _And disregards the rest"_

They are singing some bawdy melody, some horrid lyrics set to a simple tune, periodically pausing to cackle and cup themselves suggestively and leer at the maidens-if maidens they are-who bustle about to serve us beer and stronger.

And these are the men I am to trust with my life? To one day, perhaps, lead?

I shiver, and from what I hear, it may well be the last time I do so for a while. Tomorrow I embark on a voyage to India, to my new life, to a strange place. Tomorrow I leave the cold, lonely place that is my home.

England for me has always meant the quiet life of the country, though, not this city with its raucous laughter and its strange sights and men and women. I have lived, and still live, for the call of the hawk, the dog's ardent snuffle and bark, the clean air with a whiff of gunsmoke, the blood of the doe or the feather of the pheasant marking its passing from this earth, the cacophony of the church bell, the splash of the stone as it skips across the lake on a mild day-

And her, my darling, my Eliza, shielding her eyes and her pale face from the sun with a large straw bonnet, her body wrapped up in mine as I curl around her, take her hand, release it, causing her to release the pebble so that it skips just so, her eyes and bright smile as she turns her face to mine in delight, the kiss-slow and full of promise-

No. It is all lost to me now.

I finish my drink and gesture for another.

I just today arrived in Dover and met earlier this afternoon with the commanding officer of the regiment which I will be joining. After taking stock of my possessions-few-which I was able to hurriedly bring with me, I realized I left behind nothing of significance, mind you, but my books, including my volume of Catullus, which I'd been reading with Eliza-I couldn't bear to have it as a constant reminder of her absence-and now I regret it, as I am here situated in the taproom of the Black Boar awaiting our shipping-out tomorrow with nothing to do but drink and think. New, elegant-looking red coat and white breeches, brass buttons glistening, and a pair of shiny boots lie in a heap on the bed I was able to take (for a pretty penny) in a private room. I should probably have taken better care to lay them out neatly, but I couldn't stand the sight of them. They frighten me.

Am I really doing this?

It hasn't yet felt real. My decision at first seemed so drastic that it might have been interpreted as a ploy to shock my father into relenting, forgiving me. It wasn't-I had gone over my finances with our family solicitor, quickly and secretly after being ejected from Delaford, and came to realize that, far from my hope of entering Cambridge this autumn and reading Greek and Latin, I would have to find something to occupy my life that would result in the acquiring of monies, rather than the spending of such. I have, in short, nothing. But a small portion inherited from my mother would keep me from being destitute if I could use it to buy my way into a uniform and an officership, he'd said, and I selected the East India Company as the least likely to get me embroiled in a war-just fiddling about with the imports and exports, isn't it, he'd asked, and I had reluctantly, horrified, throat closing up in an unmanly fashion, nodded my head.

And then I had written to Father, and Charles had replied for him-Father being too disgusted with me to respond-with a "Good luck" and a request to remember him on his wedding day, which was the very day he put pen to that particular bit of paper.

The fear in me explodes and paralyzes me, the fear, now the knowledge, that he wouldn't command me to come home, to take up my rightful place as second son, go and study and maybe even take a profession, but to eventually, maybe years hence, but not never-eventually take my place as Eliza's husband, to give her safety and love and children-

Stop.

Molly is her name-the buxom wench who stands in front of me with a fresh tankard of beer-she tells me that her name is Molly, and that I seem so much more of a gentleman than the other drunks in the taproom, and would I like, mayhap for a reasonable rate, to find out if there's anything she can do to assist me in the privacy of my room. I shoo her off.

A man has come downstairs and joined the rabble, and it is clear from his deportment that he is like me, a gentleman by birth, but he sits with them at the bench and throws back his head in laughter at something that one of them says. At the next round, he buys. He seems to know them by Christian names, and to take true delight in their japes and jests.

Do not mistake me. It isn't that they're not gentlemen that stops me from joining them. It's that I feel I'd have nothing to say to them. Nothing to contribute. They're so completely insular, so happy, too, and all I seem to have to think about right now are my own problems. How can I join them if only to add a dour countenance to their playful good humour?

How can I live among them? I shall only ever be a sad little boy, in the body of a grown man.

One of them takes up with Molly, and I see him box her into a corner-not even waiting for the privacy of his chamber or hers-and begin to caress her and take her mouth in a kiss. They dance their dance, something I have never witnessed other people doing-showing each other physical affection. In my experience, the only people who have ever held me are my mother, and Eliza-darling, dear girl-now both lost to me. I don't know what it looks like, what it feels like, to hold a woman, to be near a woman, and know that I could have her in truth, that I could love her and be loved, so I stare out of curiosity rather than out of anything lewd, and I see her coarse yellow hair slip out of her cap, see her hands press into his sides, her skirts shift and slide with the movement of her legs as, finally, he pushes her up the staircase and out of sight. Is that how love turns out? Would my love of Eliza have led there? And then what?

We had never talked about the future, Eliza and me. We'd just lived and loved. I'd never questioned but that somehow we'd be able to make it. Somehow, through love and poetry and sweetness and the light that burned mutually in our hearts, we'd find a way in the world. And now, this was my way in the world-with them.

The other gentleman catches my eye. He nods, comes over to where I sit in the darkened corner, my table littered with empty cups and bowls.

"You're not part of the company, are you?" He's maybe eight or ten years older than me.

"Just bought my commission. Christopher Brandon," I offer, holding out my hand.

"Ah, a greenhorn. Well. Welcome, Lieutenant. Come sit with us. Name's John. Captain Middleton in public, but I don't see as the public house counts, does it?" He grins and guffaws.

I get up-carefully, for I've had a few, and the floor seems to be wobbling a bit. The captain introduces me to the others at the table-Private Jones, Private Smithers, Private Honeywell, the absent Private Sinclair currently occupied with good Miss Molly, and Corporal Sloot, who, though the highest ranking man there save Middleton, is also the one closest to raving in his cups. All seem to sober up as much as they can with the addition of another officer at their table, but soon I order another round for everyone and they seem to warm up to me ever so slightly. Is this acceptable, following the captain's example, drinking with the men who'll be my subordinates tomorrow? Is it merely a courtesy, for tomorrow we embark into dangerous waters, sailing beyond anything any of us save perhaps the captain has ever known?

It dawns upon me for the first time that I could die.

And wouldn't that be a relief, after all this?

Isn't that, to be perfectly honest, the reason I didn't flinch at the solicitor's suggestion?

After one more round, Middleton pulls rank and orders the men to bed. We have an early day. They begrudgingly make their way to the communal quarters they'll share. I take it that Middleton, like me, has his own. I make to go to bed as well.

"Lieutenant-wait."

I hesitate. Then I turn to him.

"Who is she?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"You're mooning over some bit of skirt, or I'm a monkey's uncle. Come. Sit. Drink-one more won't make the morning's hangover any worse. He raises up a hand, and two fresh ales appear in front of us."

I don't think it's appropriate for me to tell. I sip the foam off the top, distressed slightly.

"I have one-Catherine. My lady love. They're more trouble than they're worth." The captain scratches his nose. "Pretty, though. Eyes like..like, ah-oh, bollocks, I don't know poetry. Eyes like some such thing you'd read about in a poem. Slender, too, and shapely-well, her mother wants me to make some money before I come and claim her hand, so here I am. Are you here because of some woman? Half the men here are running from some woman, or running towards a fortune so they can marry, and the other half are running after an adventure that might get them killed."

"Her name is Eliza. And she's...she's not mine to claim. Not anymore." This is spoken into my cup.

"She left you, did she? Well, her loss. You'll get so rich out here she'll be crawling back to you faster than you can say 'coriander.'"

"What on earth is coriander?"

Middleton smiles, a warm, happy smile. "Oh, lad. You've got a lot to learn."

"She's married. To someone else. My brother."

His smile falls. After a moment, he puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Then it's a damn good thing you're out here, now, isn't it?"

Tonight as I lie in the lumpy bed, the thin blanket pulled around me, I cannot sleep. Tonight-all I can do is listen to the wind and the surf outside the window, smell the salt air, similar but somehow alien to the Dorsetshire breezes of my youth. Tonight, for what I promise myself will be the last time, I indulge in the memory of her-how near we came to giving ourselves to one another; how much I ache to touch her one last time, how softly her hands caressed my face, my hair, my lips, and the broken promises we made but must now forget.


End file.
